


We'll Outlast the Cold, My Love

by ElloPoppet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Eve, First Kiss, Fluff, Future Fic, Holidays, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, Sherlock's Violin, Short & Sweet, Slice of Life, Snow, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 01:04:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16608902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElloPoppet/pseuds/ElloPoppet
Summary: A glimpse into a soft exchange on Christmas Eve.“I can hear you thinking from here, John. It’s distracting.”John hummed something both acknowledging and noncommittal. “Yes, well. I was just thinking back to those Christmases when you were dead. You know, as one does.”





	We'll Outlast the Cold, My Love

“Bed, Rosie. Now, please.”

It was difficult to remain stern when John himself knew the draw that his little one was feeling in that moment, sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor. She stared up at Sherlock who towered above her, her eyes twinkling in that magical way that belonged to four-year-olds who were up long past their bedtime on Christmas Eve night.

For what it was worth, Sherlock didn’t seem to notice. Eyes closed, brilliant flush on his otherwise pale cheeks, he had lost himself in the music and movement of his violin. The tune that he was playing was his own, John knew, practiced and rewritten over and over again during late nights and early mornings. It carried a burning, melodic holiday feeling with it, expressing emotions of longing and remembrance in a way that Sherlock could never do with words.

How long John and Rosie sat there simply watching, John couldn’t say. The flat was warm and dimly lit with twinkling lights reflecting off of garish garland, smelling strongly of cinnamon biscuits and nog. John didn’t even believe that Sherlock had planned to play for them truly, but how was he to refuse when Rosie had taken the violin up to him herself?

However long it had been, it was coming up on ten o’clock and Rosie was going to be a grump come Christmas morning if John let things continue. Sherlock did him no favors by continuing to draw out the melody as John directed Rosie to bed, though the prat did dare to smile when Rosie pleaded to stay up “for just one more, Papa!”

One more turned into two more, simply because in moments like this John was reminded of the time in his life where he thought that he would never have this again.

“Alright, off you go, Rosamund, before your Papa bursts that vessel in his temple, you see the one that’s swollen, just there? That means I’ve crossed him, and we can’t have Papa mad on Christmas now, can we?” Sherlock's timbre interrupted John’s musings. John watched as his daughter nodded gravely and stood to wrap her gangly arms around Sherlock’s long legs in a hug goodnight.

“Happy Christmas, Sherlock,” her tiny voice said, giving away her state of sleepiness. Sherlock rubbed a hand over her hair twice, three times.

“Nearly so, Tiny Flower,” he responded. Rosie untangled herself and took John by the hand to her room to tuck her in for the night. 

Sherlock was back at it when John returned to the living room, his robe hanging loosely on his long frame, ink-dark hair wild and uncombed in the light coming in from outside. He played in front of the window, staring out into the night, street lights illuminating the barely-there flakes of snow that fell from the sky and melted on the ground. 

John wasn’t sure what it was about that moment that made him release the breath that he had been holding for years, the breath that he had kept firmly within himself since drawing it that day at St. Bart’s when Sherlock had first arrived to muck up his life for good. No matter; John breathed out slowly, tension and fear trickling away as he gazed upon the man before him. 

The silence that draped over the flat the moment that John wrapped an arm around the back of Sherlock’s waist was thick, the sudden absence of music in the air palpable. But Sherlock didn’t move, didn’t shy away as John stepped beside him. Rather, Sherlock gingerly set his violin aside and leaned into John’s half-embrace. They watched the snow together, watched the night inch by them cold and unforgiving.

“I can hear you thinking from here, John. It’s distracting.”

John hummed something both acknowledging and noncommittal. “Yes, well. I was just thinking back to those Christmases when you were dead. You know, as one does.”

If John didn’t know Sherlock as well as he did, if he hadn’t studied his features at every opportunity, he might have missed the fleeting expression of pain in his eyes, the small tug of a frown in the corners of his full lips.

“John-” Sherlock started.

“No, no. Unnecessary. There are times when I think about those days, the ones where I missed you so badly that I couldn’t fathom continuing on, that make me appreciate you better now. I’ll never forgive you, not completely, but nights like this make it hard for me to do anything else but love the fact that you came back.”

John could feel Sherlock staring at him then, those eyes boring into his silhouette. John swallowed and oh, there were some residual butterflies still. Rather than return the look, John squeezed lightly where his hand lay on Sherlock’s hip. A warm arm found its way around John’s shoulders and it was easy then, to lay his head against Sherlock’s chest and watch the snow.

“I was always going to come back, John. You should know. It’s been years ago now, you should know that there’s nothing that could keep me from you. Or Rosie.”

John nodded and looked up, Sherlock’s features so close and easy to map with his eyes from where they stood, slotted together. Sherlock’s eyes were there, already on his, and the sigh that escaped Sherlock's throat when John rose up to press their lips together for the first time was consumed by the silent night within the flat.

When Rosie awoke the next morning they celebrated together, the three of them and Mrs. Hudson. The snow had ceased, not a trace of it on the street below, but John figured that there was plenty of time, plenty of years, for their little family to experience a white Christmas yet.


End file.
